


E

by Sarren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Case Fic, Gay Bar, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-07
Updated: 2010-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade met Sherlock in 2005. Or at least, that's what he tells people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	E

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta reader zebra363 and my BritPicker Pionie

**16 August 2004**

 

IT WOULD BE IN YOUR INTEREST TO BE AT THE RED LION AT MIDNIGHT TONIGHT. 

Lestrade stares at the message, a sinking sensation in his stomach. He hasn't been to that club in, God, twenty years. He left that life behind him after his first promotion, played it straight, avoided casual pickups, and resisted the temptation to go back even once for a bit of relief. He wonders if it's someone he knew back in the day, or if it's someone who's found out about him and thinks they can blackmail him. If so, they obviously don't know him very well.

He runs a trace on the number. It's an unregistered SIM card. He hadn't really expected it to be that easy. He thinks about ignoring the text, but even as he's considering it he knows he's not going to. If it isn't a threat, he's curious to find out what the caller considers is in his interest, and if it is, then probably best to deal with it straight away, rather than wait around for the caller to make another move.

 

The club hasn't changed that much. Oh, the music of the New Romantics has been replaced by this modern trance music that Lestrade suspects can only really be appreciated with chemical assistance; laser lights randomly highlight dancers clearly enjoying an altered state of consciousness. And fluoro and denim have been replaced by tight, shiny and barely there. But under the surface, the clientele's the same: gay, straight and everything in between. It's always been a comfortable, inclusive type of place. Lestrade had found it soon after he arrived in London, young and pretty and innocent. The innocence hadn't lasted long, he'd made sure of that, but he'd made good friends too, and that had been the hardest thing about the lifestyle to give up when he had decided to join the Force.

He makes his way to the bar and orders soda water, then sits and observes. The energy of the crowd makes him nostalgic. After a while the novelty wears off, though; this techno music sounds monotonous to him and it really drives home that he doesn't belong here anymore. He's outgrown the scene. It makes him feel old.

At quarter past twelve he cracks and orders a beer. He gets approached three times, twice by boys young enough to be his son, and once by an attractive bloke whose blatantly appreciative perusal of Lestrade's body sends a shiver of arousal through him and is a bitter reminder of everything he's given up for his career. He turns the man down with a regretful smile, but something of what he's feeling must bleed through, by the sideways look the man gives him as he retreats.

By half twelve he's bored. There's nothing dodgy going on that he can see, though the strobe lighting makes it hard to really observe anyone properly. He can't be sure if he himself is being watched or not, but he doesn't think so. He checks his phone for the fifth time, and seriously considers ordering a second beer.

At quarter to one Lestrade decides to give it up as a bad job. Obviously his mystery texter isn't going to show. He slides the glass he'd been holding onto as a prop back onto the bar. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring the arse grope he gets as he makes his way to the gents.

He goes for a pee, doing his best to ignore the two guys grinding against each other in the corner. He's been half-hard for ages, just from the sexually charged atmosphere. He washes his hands, glancing in the mirror. He barely recognises himself in the dim blue light. Everything's black; the walls, the sinks, his leathers -- which are a lot tighter since he wore them last -- even his hair. Lestrade scrubs his hands through his gelled hair, making it stick out in spikes in all directions. The dye's only semi-permanent, which is obviously the sensible way to go, but he's vain enough to appreciate the way the lack of grey takes a decade off his age. He'd be tempted to keep it this way, if he didn't know he'd get the piss taken out of him by his colleagues.

A man stumbles through the door, laughing. Lestrade automatically catalogues what he sees: mid-twenties, dark sweat-streaked curls, high cheekbones, lanky, but filling out his stylish, expensive suit very well. Lestrade cuts off that thought quickly and instead wonders who the hell wears a suit to a gay club. The man gives him an appreciative once over and Lestrade flushes with heat despite himself. He stares at the man quellingly in the mirror. It doesn't seem to have any effect. If anything, his smile sharpens. He wanders over and stands behind Lestrade. Too close.

"Got any E?" he purrs in Lestrade's ear, and Lestrade shivers at the sound of his voice. He always did have a weakness for a posh accent.

"Sorry mate," he says, turning around.

"Are you sure?" The man prowls even closer and Lestrade instinctively takes a step back, but then his arse is against the sink and the only way to go is to push past the man. He doesn't want to do that, yet: he's not sure what the man's up to, but he doesn't want a scene if he can avoid it.

The man's drenched with sweat and there's something wild about his pale eyes. Either he's been dancing up a storm or he's already high. Either way: "You don't look like you need any more stimulants," he says, and then kicks himself. Could he sound any more like a cop?

Surprisingly, amusement lights the man's face. He leans in close, a wayward curl brushing Lestrade's cheek. "Oh, I don't know," he murmurs. "There's stimulation, and then there's _stimulation_ ," and before Lestrade can even process that, distracted by the scent of sweat and underneath that, some expensive aftershave, the man is groping him through the leather. Lestrade is rock hard, his pulse roaring in his ears drowning out the heavy beat that pervades the club. He stares into the man's eyes for a moment, trying to will himself to pull away, to get away. Fuck. He knew it'd been a mistake coming here tonight. He should have known this was all it would take, any half-attractive bloke casually taking charge like this. The man smiles and it's wicked and it's knowing. Lestrade sucks in a breath at the promise in it and then his flies are undone; the man's hand is sliding inside, hot and sweaty and so fucking good. Lestrade sags against the sink; it's the only thing holding him up.

"No underwear. I approve," the man says, and Lestrade is suddenly staring at the top of his head because the man has sunk to his knees, sucking Lestrade's cock as though he's sitting an exam, all concentration and focus. He can't even remember the last time sex felt this good and maybe it's time to think about making some changes in his life, but not now, not when his brain is getting sucked out of his cock. It's been too long; he's not going to last. He manages to gasp out a warning -- if the guy can even hear it over the club's music but he must have, because suddenly his mouth is gone and he's standing up. Lestrade moans in protest, but then a movement in the background reminds Lestrade that they're in a public toilet for God's sake. How had he forgotten that? He freezes, watching over the man's shoulder as the guys from the corner zip up their jeans and leave. They don't even glance over as they pass him, but he's suddenly aware of how exposed he is, how vulnerable, and it should be a mood killer but it's not. Lestrade's harder than ever. It's been too fucking long and his body craves this, but that's not a good enough reason to be doing this here, and he needs to put a stop to it _right now_ , and he's just about to say so when the man leans in close and, his breath hot against Lestrade's ear, the words clipped and precise, "I really want to fuck you."

Fuck. His voice, the accent, the intensity, it's nearly enough to make Lestrade come on the spot. But then the door to the gents swings open and someone staggers in, thankfully too drunk to really pay attention to them. Lestrade opens his mouth to say _hell no_ , to put an end to this madness. But then the man is pushing him backwards into a cubicle, locking the door and pushing him against the wall and snogging him, all in one smooth move. Lestrade's arms are around his neck. Lestrade is trying to ride the thigh that's forced itself between his legs. Then the man pulls away to stare hungrily at him. "May I? _May_ I fuck you?" and his voice is no longer cool, it wavers, it's desperate sounding. It's all too much, the flash of pale eyes in the dim lighting and the pounding beat thrumming through the wall at his back. Lestrade nods slowly, a shiver going through him at the man's triumphant smile.

Then he's being manhandled around and he has to brace himself against the wall as strong hands drag his trousers to his ankles with one hard yank. There's fumbling behind him and he half turns, catches a glimpse of the man's hand, sliding something slick over his erection and fuck, Lestrade hadn't even given a thought to condoms. Hands take hold of his arse and something huge and slick is sliding between his cheeks. This is it -- this is his last chance to put a stop to this. He's about to say something but then there's a mouth against his neck and a sharp nip and pain that shoots straight to his cock. Lestrade gasps and arches and the next thing his body is breached and it fucking hurts and it's the best fucking feeling _ever_. Lestrade groans as he's crowded into the wall, the man hot against him, breathing heavily as he ruts into Lestrade. Lestrade is gasping, plundered, and then the man shifts and changes his angle and fuck, that's his prostate _right there_. Lestrade's staring blindly now, all he can focus on is the pressure building in his arse. It's too much. He needs to come. He reaches to finish himself off but his hand is brushed away. Then the man's hand grasps him firmly and pulls once, twice and Lestrade comes hard. He's still pulsing, still soaring high on the pleasure of it when the man groans into his neck and comes.

They're still pressed together, practically holding each other up. Lestrade can't be bothered to tell the man to get off him, he's too relaxed, his body aching pleasurably. God, he's missed this. When the man does move back, carelessly disposing of the condom down the toilet and zipping himself up, Lestrade doesn't know what to say. The man's just standing there, watching Lestrade. In the dim light his eyes look colourless and alien.

"Well, that was interesting," the man says and surprises him by abruptly leaning forward and kissing Lestrade briefly on the mouth. He leaves while Lestrade is still wondering how to respond to that.

He puts himself back together slowly, his body still humming with satisfaction, looking forward to collapsing into bed. Then his phone vibrates. He wrestles it out of the inside pocket of his jacket and clicks on the message.

LOOK IN THE CISTERN. 

So much for going home. Still, at least it looks like it hasn't been a wasted trip. Lestrade sticks his head out of the cubicle and looks around. The room is empty. He locks the door and removes the lid of the cistern. Inside there's a plastic-wrapped bundle. He fishes it out and tries to make out the contents, but it's too dark and the package too well wrapped. He opens up the Swiss Army blade he keeps on his key ring and slices into the plastic. Inside there's a wad of bank notes and a gun. There's nothing else. Obviously this is what he's been sent here to find, but he doesn't know what to make of it. His phone beeps again.

ARREST THE MANAGER. 

Lestrade calls it in. When confronted with the evidence, the manager sags back into his chair with his hands over his face. He doesn't take much persuading to talk -- he was in over his head, just a bloke who'd agreed to turn a blind eye to the odd bit of criminal activity going on, only to realise it wasn't only drugs as he'd assumed, but people-trafficking and murder. He seems relieved that it's over, and doesn't put up any protest at being escorted in handcuffs through his own club.

Lestrade can see his team eyeing his leather, his dyed hair. He stares them down. He explains the anonymous tip that brought him here but he knows there'll be gossip, speculation even, and his stomach turns at the prospect of someone actually coming out and asking him if he's gay. But in the event, it doesn't happen. A few days later Kathy in the canteen eyes his hair approvingly and asks if he'll model the leather outfit for her and that's all. If anything, his reputation seems to have improved.

He sends a thank you text. There's no response.

Lying in bed at night he jerks off to the memory of cheekbones and pale eyes and the brief press of lips against his own.

 

 **12 June 2005**

 

Lestrade is just going off duty when his phone beeps. He hopes it isn't anything that can't wait until tomorrow. He's had a bugger of a day, and is looking forward to getting a curry and watching the match on the telly.

GO TO 200 HUDDLESTONE RD IMMEDIATELY. LIVES ARE AT STAKE. 

Lestrade knows at once who it's from. He heads out straight away, collaring Donovan on his way. She doesn't argue, even though he knows she'd been about to go home too. She hasn't been with the team long but she's competent, focused and driven. He can tell she's going to be an asset.

They get there in under fifteen minutes. The homeowner lets them in readily enough, but Lestrade's instincts are screaming at him. Lestrade keeps him talking. He watches the man's fingers twitch, the way his eyes follow Donovan as she moves around the room.

"Mind if we look around, Mr Bryant?" Donovan asks, peering into the hall.

There's no mistaking the fear that flashes across Bryant's face. "Actually, I have to be somewhere," he says, "so if you don't mind—"

There's a crashing sound from the room above. Lestrade and Donovan both glance up. When Lestrade looks back at Bryant he's pointing a gun at them. His hand is shaking. The surge of adrenalin sharpens Lestrade's focus; he notes the trickle of sweat on Bryant's temple, the barely audible scraping sounds coming from upstairs. He raises his hands, stepping away from Donovan, keeping Bryant's focus on him. "Stop," Bryant says, his voice cracking and then Donovan lunges forward with her baton and Lestrade ducks out of the way. One swift strike to his hand and Bryant yelps and drops the gun. Donovan moves in swiftly while Bryant's still distracted and manhandles his wrists behind his back. Lestrade retrieves the gun while she handcuffs Bryant and reads him his rights. The whole process takes maybe 30 seconds.

They find Bryant's family cowering in a bedroom upstairs. Thankfully, they're bruised but okay. The wife is bewildered – she has no idea what made him suddenly turn violent. She knew he'd been having problems at work, but he'd assured her it was nothing to worry about. Her voice trails off; she looks anxious and confused. Shock is setting in. They're not going to get anything useful out of her for the moment. Lestrade pulls the duvet off the bed and tucks it around her and the child she's clutching in her lap. He stays with them until the emergency services arrive.

Lestrade doesn't feel like eating by the time he gets home. He cracks open a beer and contemplates the message on his phone while he drinks it. He'd assumed the tip off last year had been from someone connected to the club, maybe even someone who knew his history, but this new crime is completely unrelated as far as he can tell. He'll dig deeper tomorrow of course, but he has a feeling he's right on this one, that the situations are unrelated. In which case, who the hell is this person texting him, how the hell had he known about Bryant and why contact Lestrade instead of Crimestoppers?

At 2 a.m. he's still awake, staring at the ceiling. He grabs his phone off the bedside table and texts back, "Who are you?"

Seconds later his phone rings. Lestrade nearly drops the phone in surprise. He stares at the number on the screen, feeling his pulse rate pick up in anticipation. He presses the connect button and slowly puts the phone to his ear.

"You've managed to surprise me, Inspector," the voice purrs, and God, he knows that voice, he's been jerking off to the memory of that voice for a year.

"You," he says, and then wishes he could bite the word back as the voice chuckles in his ear.

"I wondered if you'd recognise my voice. But I suppose it's not like you've had other…distractions…this last year."

"How the hell do you know that? Are you stalking me?" Lestrade says, his skin prickling with unease.

"Hardly," the man says derisively. "You're quite boringly predictable. You're a 40 year old gay man who remains closeted not by choice but because you believe your career would be adversely affected were your sexuality to become common knowledge. Most likely correctly. Given your strong personal moral and ethical code you would consider it beneath you to engage in anonymous hook-ups in public parks or saunas. Until that night in the club you had almost certainly not had a sexual encounter with another man since before you were made a sergeant. Your response to allowing yourself to be fucked by a stranger in a public toilet would have been to close that closet door even more firmly."

For a moment Lestrade is paralysed. He's been afraid of something like this for so long. Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. No point assuming the worst until he finds out what the man is up to. If this is about blackmail, the man's chosen a very convoluted way of going about it.

"What do you want from me?" he says. He doesn't bother to deny any of the man's assumptions about him. What would be the point?

"Actually, it's what you want from me."

"And what's that, then?"

"I can help you."

"Help me what?"

There's a huff of annoyance, as though the man can't believe how obtuse Lestrade is being. "Solve your cases. Only the interesting ones of course. Only the difficult ones that are worth my time."

"Why me?"

"I've done my research. You're the least stupid of the uninspired lot up at Scotland Yard."

"I'm flattered," Lestrade says dryly.

"Don't be. It wasn't a compliment."

"And if I don't agree to this?"

"You will."

"Or what? You'll out me?"

There's silence for a moment on the other end of the phone. "You believe this is an attempt to coerce you into working with me."

"Isn't it?"

"My dear Lestrade, I know you better than that. You would tell your Chief your shameful secret yourself before you would allow yourself to be blackmailed."

"It's not shameful."

"I'm perfectly well aware of that. Are you?"

"You seem to know all about me."

"I know a lot. Not everything. Yet." And there it is again. That seductive tone that goes straight to his cock. Lestrade slides his hand into his pyjamas before he even thinks about it.

"What do you mean, 'yet'?" he says steadily. He palms himself gently, arousal pooling in his groin. He shouldn't be doing this, but he feels reckless suddenly, and it's not like this man – this man whose name he doesn't even know – doesn't know all about him already.

"Oh, I think we're going to be very good friends, don't you, Greg?"

God, the sound of his voice. He must have meant that to sound seductive, mustn't he? Lestrade kicks off the duvet, spreads his legs a bit. "Are we?" he says softly.

"I think so, yes," the man says.

It occurs to Lestrade that the man knows very well what Lestrade is doing, that he's playing along. He wonders if the man's doing the same thing at his end. He's probably lying in bed too. He can picture him doing it so clearly – Lestrade remembers what he looks like as though it were yesterday – and the thought sends the rest of the blood rushing to his cock. He bites back a moan.

"You seem to like the idea," the man says, and God, Lestrade can't keep calling him 'the man'.

"What's your name?" he asks. "Who the hell are you?"

"I was wondering when it would occur to you to ask. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I promise you I am no threat to you."

"I'd worked that out for myself," Lestrade says.

"Yes, but you might have been wrong. You so often are, after all."

"Thanks very much," Lestrade says, but it's hard to work up any kind of righteous indignation when he's jerking himself off to the sound of that voice. It's getting hard to concentrate. "What kind of name is Sherlock, anyway?" he mutters.

"It's derived from Middle English, meaning cropped hair. It's quite obvious, if you take a moment to think about it, Lestrade," Sherlock says chidingly. Lestrade has a feeling he's going to be condescended to a lot in the future, if he goes along with this, if he agrees to allow Sherlock into his life.

"Of course it is," Lestrade agrees, more to keep Sherlock talking than anything else.

"I am wearing blue pyjamas made of a machine washable silk-polyester blend which feel comfortable yet sensuous against my skin."

"What?" Lestrade says, thrown by the non-sequitur.

"I was under the impression we'd progressed to the phone sex part of the conversation. I believe an integral part of this act is the sharing of details of one's attire."

Lestrade has to laugh. "Have you ever done this before?"

"No. Have you?"

"No." Hell, he thinks, why not. He's already in the mood and Sherlock's willing. Might as well give it a go. "What are you doing?"

"I am testing the effects of various types of acid on the human nail."

Lestrade's hand freezes. "Right now?"

There's a pause. "That wasn't the correct answer, was it?" Sherlock says, sounding rueful.

"Not so much, no."

"Ah."

"Whose nails?"

"Mine, of course," Sherlock says. Lestrade can practically hear the eye-roll.

"Er…"

There's a heavy sigh. "Perhaps I need to clarify that I am just using nail clippings, not attempting to dissolve my own digits."

Well, that was a mood-killer. "Good to know."

"Sorry, where were we?"

"Never mind," Lestrade says. "I've kind of lost the mood now."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock says, sounding genuinely surprised. "Are you sure?"

Lestrade has to laugh. "Good night, Sherlock Holmes," he says, and hangs up. He'll be able to sleep now.

 

 **10 October 2005**

 

It's a typical boy's room, giant posters of Beckham and Ronaldo and other Manchester United memorabilia decorating the walls. There's a half-eaten toasted sandwich on the desk, a computer game has gone into standby mode. The victim, 17 year old Oliver Mayfield, is sprawled in his desk chair. His throat has been cut.

His parents are numb with their grief and horror, and utterly bewildered when Lestrade asks about possible enemies; asks all the necessary questions. He's just an ordinary kid, ordinary grades, ordinary at sports, with a passion for football and online computer games. No, his parents don't know what games he plays or who his online friends are, but he's always been a sensible boy, he wouldn't get taken in by those internet predators one hears about… Mrs Mayfield weeps quietly, hopelessly. Mr Mayfield is the strong one; he holds her hand, pats it uselessly. But his eyes are the eyes of a man who doesn't have anything left to live for. Lestrade makes a note to follow up with the counsellors, make sure he doesn't slip through the cracks. It's a guilty relief to leave them alone in the suffocating silence.

Back at his desk Lestrade turns his phone over in his hands. Sherlock hasn't contacted him since that night. Lestrade's been tempted to call him more than once, but he's well aware his reasons aren't purely professional. It's ridiculous, the amount of time he spends thinking about a man he really doesn't know at all. He's had Sherlock Holmes checked out through official channels and he's had a read of his website. It appears Sherlock is brilliant, eccentric and has no close friends or relationships. None of which has come as a surprise and none of which explains what exactly Sherlock is playing at with him. The text messages had obviously been Sherlock showing off, getting his attention. A job interview, almost. It's the rest of it that makes no sense to Lestrade. What had been the point of coming on to him, seducing him? To prove that he could?

Now that he actually has a reason to call, he's hesitating. The whole idea has disaster written all over it. He can't imagine anyone is going to react well to his bringing in an outside consultant. It's not going to do his career any good if the outside consultant solves this case for him. It'll be even worse if Sherlock bollockses it up -- if his erratic behaviour ends up screwing up the case.

But official lines of enquiry have failed, and whether or not Lestrade wants to see Sherlock again is irrelevant. The killer has to be stopped. He owes it to Oliver Mayfield.

And the others.

 

Sherlock sweeps into his office, his coat billowing behind him impressively. Lestrade wonders cynically if he practises that move.

"Well?" he asks, rubbing his hands together. "What have you got for me?" Sherlock looks positively elated. Possibly too much so.

"Are you on anything?" Lestrade asks bluntly.

"Not today," Sherlock replies breezily, apparently uncaring of the possible repercussions of admitting to using drugs to a police officer. Right in Scotland Yard, for Christ's sake. He's not displaying any physiological symptoms. Short of making him take a drug test, Lestrade'll have to trust Sherlock's telling him the truth.

He holds out Oliver's file. Sherlock snatches it eagerly and flicks through it. He rolls his eyes and flings himself into the nearby chair, limbs sprawled and gangly and God help him, looking sexy as hell. "I said _interesting_ cases, Lestrade," he says petulantly.

And to think Lestrade had been concerned about Sherlock coming here, that he might betray something of their personal relationship. Apparently Lestrade's been worried for nothing. He should be relieved about that. He sits back in his chair and gestures at the door. "No one's forcing you to be here," he says calmly.

Sherlock leans forward and stares at him. God, he's even better looking than Lestrade remembers, and Lestrade really shouldn't be letting Sherlock get to him like this. He makes himself hold Sherlock's eyes, to not show how much his heart is suddenly pounding, but from the sudden gleam in his grey eyes, Lestrade suspects Sherlock knows anyway.

"There's something else," Sherlock states with certainty.

Lestrade hands him the next file. David Cohen, age 77, emigrated from Poland after the war, five children, found on a bench outside his local shopping centre six months ago. Lestrade watches Sherlock flick through the crime scene photos, watches him pause to stare intently at the close-up of the numbers tattooed on the victim's forearm.

When Sherlock puts the folder back on the desk Lestrade hands over the last file. Sherlock flicks it open to the photo on the top page. His eyes fly up to meet Lestrade's for a moment, then he looks down again, his face expressionless. She's sitting in her toy pedal car. It's pink, with yellow flowers. Except where the blood stains it. Lestrade swivels in his chair and stares at the sky while Sherlock reads about Lisa Ladan, age seven, born of parents who'd escaped from war-torn Somalia to a brand new life in England, who'd believed their daughter was safe playing in their back garden.

The police had had no reason to connect her murder to Cohen's.

"I'll need to talk to the families," Sherlock announces.

"I'll take you to see Cohen's widow. Then we'll see."

"You want to see how I behave, is that it?"

"Before I let you anywhere near parents who've just lost their only child in horrific circumstances?" Lestrade says pointedly as he stands up. "Absolutely."

Sherlock smiles lopsidedly. "Fair enough," he agrees.

"By the way," Sherlock says, as they're coming out of Lestrade's office, "I prefer your hair like that." He gestures vaguely with his hand. "Very distinguished."

Out of the corner of his eye Lestrade sees Donovan's head whip around. He forces himself not to show any reaction. "Thanks," he says calmly, as though he's not having to control an urge to see if everyone in the room is staring at them. Move along, people. Nothing to see here.

 

Lestrade watches Sherlock poke around the shabby bedsit Annia Cohen had been forced to move into after her husband died. Sherlock's eyes dart back and forth, and then linger on the cluttered shelf on the wall. "This is a nice photograph," he says, bringing it over and holding it in front of the old lady.

Mrs Cohen peers at it through her thick glasses. "Oh, yes," she agrees, "David was very proud of that." She clasps her age-spotted hands in front of her.

"And who's that with your husband?" Sherlock asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"That's George Best, that is. I still have the autograph he signed for David that day somewhere." She looks around vaguely. "I'm not sure where it's got to."

"Do you happen to know what number he played, you know, on the field?"

She looks bewildered. "No, I'm sorry. Is that important?"

Sherlock smiles charmingly at the old lady. "No, not at all, sorry to have bothered you. Come on, Inspector." Sherlock tugs at his arm.

"Hang on, is that it?" Lestrade turns back to Mrs Cohen. "Thank you for your help, ma'am," he says, as Sherlock all but drags him out of there.

Out in the street Sherlock taps away furiously on his phone.

"Oi, Sherlock," Lestrade says, a bit aggrieved. "What was that about George Best? How is that relevant?"

Sherlock gives an exclamation of triumph. "As I thought," he exclaims, gesturing with the phone in his hand.

"What?"

"Number seven."

"What about it?"

"George Best played number seven." Sherlock says with exaggerated patience. "So did those two players on the wall in Oliver Mayfield's bedroom."

"You're never telling me that Oliver and David Cohen were murdered because they were fans of football players who happened to play the same number? Sherlock, that's crazy! And what about Lisa Ladan, you can't tell me she was a Manchester United fan!"

Sherlock hails a taxi. One appears as if by magic. Lestrade never has that sort of luck.

"It's not about football, it's about the number!" Sherlock says, as he leaps into the back of the cab. Lestrade clambers in after him.

"The number," he repeats as the taxi pulls out into the road.

"Remember the toy car."

"That Lisa was found in."

"It had a licence plate."

Lestrade tries to think. He hadn't noticed.

"It said 'LISA 7'. One assumes it was a birthday present. As far I can ascertain from just the photograph, it wasn't more than a few months old."

"Still, it's a stretch," Lestrade points out doubtfully.

"What about their birthdates?"

"What about them?"

Sherlock groans. "How do you people _function?_ " he snaps. "Lisa was born in July, the seventh month. She was seven years old. Her number plate read 7. Oliver was 17 years old. Also born in July. His heroes were Ronaldo, who plays number 7, and David Beckham, who also played number 7. David Cohen was 77 years old; he was born in December 1927. Remember his Auschwitz tattoo? The last three numbers were sevens!"

"You're saying that the killer is targeting people who happen to have high incidences of the number seven about them? Sherlock, that's crazy."

Sherlock grins at him. His eyes are alight with excitement. "Yes, it is."

"That can't be it."

"I'm right, you'll see."

"If it's that random, how are we going to catch him? We can't exactly keep an eye on every person in London with a seven in their birth date or on their number plates."

"If it's even that specific. It could be credit card numbers next."

Christ. Lestrade leans back in his seat; scrubs his face with his hands. "What do you suggest?"

"Clearly the killer has chosen the number for a reason. Perhaps some religious or mystical association, perhaps he associates it with evil, regards those he murders as evil?"

"Or maybe it's just his lucky number."

"Let's hope it's not _that_ random."

"And another thing. How is he finding them? How does he know their birthdates, and all that personal information about them?"

Sherlock's still tapping away madly at his phone. He glances up at Lestrade, his brows drawn. "Any number of government agencies, financial institutions and corporations require all sorts of personal information as a matter of course."

"But Lisa's car? Oliver's posters?"

"Good point. Someone who had access to their homes, then. What's the connection? What? What?"

"There isn't one. They all lived in different boroughs, different socio-economic areas. They were even different races and ages."

"I wonder if that was deliberate," Sherlock muses, tapping his mouth with his finger, which has the unfortunate result of drawing Lestrade's attention to his mouth, which is really not on right now.

It still seems mad to Lestrade but it's the best – the only – lead they've got right now, so he phones Donovan and updates her, has her put the team on trying to find someone who has a connection to the victims.

Suddenly Sherlock shouts, "Ah ha!" Lestrade shrugs apologetically when the driver stares at them in the rear-view mirror with startled eyes.

"What have you got?"

Sherlock turns the phone around. There's a news report on the screen. "Leslie Gilders," he announces.

"What about him?"

"His own son died 15 months ago, killed on his tenth birthday when he rode his new bike – a birthday present from his father – into the path of an oncoming car. The date: the seventh of July 2004!"

Lestrade stares at Sherlock incredulously. "So you think the death of his son has unbalanced him, and now he's somehow obsessed with the number seven. That still doesn't explain why he's killing innocent people."

"We'll just have to ask him." Sherlock leans forward, "Change of address, driver," he says enthusiastically.

"Where are we going?"

"To his last known address. I suspect he moves around a bit."

"Why's that, then?"

Annoyingly, Sherlock just smiles mysteriously and turns to gaze out of the window. Lestrade watches his reflection in the glass. Once, Sherlock meets his eyes and smiles. Lestrade looks away.

 

The taxi pulls up at a terraced house in a quiet street, the sort of street where people mind their own business if they know what's good for them. Lestrade recognises the area. It's approximately half a dozen streets away from the Mayfields' home. Sherlock bounds up the path to the door while Lestrade is still paying the driver. He raps sharply on the door as Lestrade joins him. He tilts his head as though listening. He knocks a second time.

"He's not here," Lestrade says. Sherlock holds up a hand. Lestrade glares at him but shuts up and takes the time while Sherlock is listening for whatever Sherlock is listening for to study the surrounding area. Curtains twitch across the way, but there's no sign of anyone other than a small group of sullen-looking teenagers in hoodies sitting on the curb a little way up the street.

He looks back to see Sherlock leaning against the door, both his hands out of sight in front of him. The lock rattles.

"Hang about, you can't just break in like that," Lestrade says indignantly.

"I'm not," Sherlock says with an unconvincing attempt at innocence. "Look, it's open," he declares, pushing the door open.

"Sherlock!"

The door sticks half way open. Sherlock puts his shoulder to it, forces it the rest of the way and surges inside. Lestrade follows him. He has a feeling that following Sherlock could become a habit if he doesn't put his foot down. Then he sees what Sherlock is staring at.

"Fuck me," he breathes.

Sherlock glances at him as he moves through the hall, stepping over the piles and piles of unopened mail. "Been there, done that," he smirks.

"Sherlock!"

"Oh, relax," Sherlock says. "We're alone."

"Still, you can't just say stuff like that."

"Fine," Sherlock frowns. "I won't mention it again."

"Promise?"

Sherlock looks put upon. He raises his right hand. "I solemnly swear never to mention your little indiscretion again."

"Right, then." Lestrade looks around at stacks of mail. "Looks like Gilders stopped delivering the mail months ago."

"At least a year, I would say. Mostly like since his son died."

In the living room there are more piles. Many of them have been opened. "Well, I guess that explains how he found out all that personal information about his victims," Lestrade says, looking at a stack of family photos perched precariously on one of the piles. He peers at a few of the addresses. "And he moves around, transfers to different post offices. That's why no-one's noticed the missing mail." It all makes sense now. "That's what you meant earlier."

"Over here," Sherlock says sharply, and Lestrade picks his way over to him. Unlike the rest of the room, the coffee table Sherlock is crouched in front of is clear of clutter. The only thing on it is a photo album, neatly placed in the centre. Sherlock pulls on a latex glove and carefully opens it.

Ah hell.

A cut-out newspaper article about holocaust survivors, with a photo of David Cohen holding out his arm. Not all the tattooed numbers are legible, but the sevens are clear. On the next page, an old piece of notepaper with the words "To David, regards George Best" scrawled on it. "A trophy," Sherlock murmurs. He turns the page.

"He took photos of his handiwork," Lestrade says, sickened.

Sherlock turns another page. A cheerfully coloured birthday card with clowns and a big pink '7' on the front is next. Then a large pink and green plastic badge that reads '7 today'. "He took that from her room," Sherlock says with certainty. The photos are next. Lestrade decides he's seen enough for now and turns to check out the rest of the room, in time to see a flicker of movement in the doorway.

"He's here," Lestrade says, and takes off after the sound of footsteps thudding down the hall. He catches a glimpse of Gilders as he bursts out the front door. Lestrade calls for back-up as he carefully checks the doorway to make sure the man hasn't doubled back to ambush him. Even as he registers the sight of Gilders sprinting down the road, Sherlock bolts past him and races off in pursuit.

"Wait," Lestrade calls uselessly and takes off after them, his heart thudding. If Sherlock gets his idiot self injured, Lestrade's going to have a hell of a job explaining how he allowed a civilian to get hurt.

Thankfully Gilders seems to be carrying some injury; he starts limping badly. It slows him down. Sherlock's just about caught up with him. "Sherlock, wait!" Lestrade shouts and then Sherlock, astonishingly, executes a rugby tackle that brings Gilders crashing to the ground. Sherlock is back on his feet, bouncing, grinning with exhilaration. Gilders is clutching his knee but when Lestrade goes to handcuff him Gilders pulls a knife from an ankle sheath – Jesus, is it _the_ knife? – and then Lestrade is grabbing hold of Gilders' arms, struggling not to allow the knife near him. Gilders is stronger than he looks, his face crazed with rage. Behind them he sees Sherlock reaching for the knife. "Leslie Gilders, you're under arrest," Lestrade snaps, intent on keeping Gilders' attention on him, and Gilders snarls, spittle hitting Lestrade in the face. Then Sherlock puts his hand over Gilders'. Gilders yelps and his hand flies open. The knife drops to the ground with a clatter. Lestrade quickly cuffs him. Sirens sound in the distance.

"Pressure points," Sherlock says calmly, when Lestrade looks at him.

Gilders stares at the ground as Lestrade reads him his rights.

Sherlock crouches down next to Gilders. "Were they evil?" he asks gently. Lestrade looks at him in amazement. Sherlock's face is a mask of friendliness and understanding. And that's what it is -- a mask. Lestrade hasn't known Sherlock long at all, but he knows him well enough to know that.

Gilders hasn't reacted at all to Sherlock's question. "Were there demons inside them?" Sherlock persists. "Is that why they had to die? Why the number seven? Isn't six traditionally the number of the beast?"

Gilders lifts his head. There's no animation in his face at all. "They weren't evil," he says.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitches. Lestrade wonders if that's surprise. "If they weren't evil, why did you have to kill them? You did have to kill them, didn't you?"

"Sacrifices."

"Sacrifices for what?"

Police cars scream around the corner. Lestrade quickly steps away from Sherlock and Gilders and waves at the cars not to approach. The cars stop about 50 feet away and the officers jump out. Lestrade signals them to stay where they are. He turns back to where Sherlock and Gilders are huddled.

He's missed something. Gilders is certainly talking now. It's pouring out of him. Something about his son being resurrected if he kills certain people, or a certain number of people? Sherlock is nodding understandingly; one hand rests reassuringly on Gilders' shoulder.

"Are there any more?" Lestrade asks Gilders, when the man finally falls silent. Gilders stares into space. Lestrade rubs his eyes. "Ask him if there are any more victims – sacrifices."

Sherlock does. Gilders shakes his head dully. Sherlock springs to his feet, the friendliness falling away, his face resuming its usual superior expression. Lestrade much prefers it. The other was just…creepy.

"Don't go anywhere," Lestrade warns him, as he gestures for the officers to approach, just in case Sherlock decides he has somewhere more interesting to be. "You'll be needing to make a statement."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock replies. He suddenly smiles exultantly.

Lestrade doesn't trust that smile. "What are you so happy about?" he grumbles. He's beginning to wonder whether Sherlock is this intense all the time.

"Oh come on, Inspector, what's not to be happy about?" Sherlock asks, stepping out of the way as the uniforms lead Gilders away. "I caught you a killer today. A crime that has baffled the best minds at Scotland Yard and I solved it in a day."

"Yes, all right, that's enough of that," Lestrade says, to shut him up. The officers around him are giving Sherlock dirty looks. The last thing he needs is for Sherlock to start putting people's backs up, if Lestrade wants to be able to use him again.

 

Sherlock's long since been let go by the time Lestrade finishes formally interviewing Gilders and sends him off for a psych evaluation. He can see already that Gilders' lawyer is going to have him found unfit to stand trial. It pisses Lestrade off, that someone can go around butchering innocent people and escape a prison sentence because the voices in their head told them to do it. He could really do with a stiff drink or three. Before he can talk himself out of it he sends off a quick text: 'Want to go out for a drink?' There's no response. He closes down his computer and stretches his neck, trying to work the kinks out.

He's manoeuvring his bike through the traffic on Tottenham Court Road when he recognises the clenched feeling in his stomach as disappointment. He has the urge to get on the motorway, open up the throttle and just ride until the only thing he's thinking about is the speed and the wind and the vibration of the engine under him. It almost feels like flying -- nothing else in Lestrade's life comes close to it. But he has responsibilities; he has a press conference first thing in the morning and a mountain of paperwork ahead of him, so he dutifully turns the bike towards home.

He's taken off his coat, looped his scarf around the rack and taken two steps into the living room when he notices the sofa is occupied.

His heart leaps into his throat for a moment before he recognises Sherlock, sprawled with his arm flung dramatically over his eyes. "What the hell, Sherlock!"

Sherlock catapults to his feet and glares at him. "I don't _do_ boyfriends," he states.

O-kay. "Hello to you, too," Lestrade says cautiously. He gets out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, puts them on the coffee table and sits down on the sofa. He doesn't ask Sherlock what he's doing here, in that case. It's possible Sherlock doesn't himself know. He doesn't want to scare him off.

Sherlock looks brittle. His usual supreme self-confidence is noticeably absent. Lestrade pours two shots and pushes one of the glasses towards Sherlock. Sherlock ignores it.

Lestrade picks up his own glass. He turns it around in his hands. "How about occasional shags with closeted detective inspectors?" he suggests casually, as though he doesn't care what Sherlock's answer will be, as though his pulse isn't picking up in anticipation of Sherlock's answer. It's possible he's pulled it off.

Sherlock scowls. "This is a bad idea."

That isn't a no. Lestrade absolutely can't help the rush of hope making his heart beat faster with anticipation. He forces himself not to move, not to show anything of what he's feeling on his face.

Sherlock must see something anyway. "Don't care about me," he sneers, looking down his nose at Lestrade.

"Not a chance," Lestrade agrees, slouching back into the sofa, making his body language as open and relaxed as he can.

"I mean it."

"So do I." And he does. Sherlock may be as sexy as hell, and Lestrade might fancy him like nobody's business, but he's not someone anyone in their right mind would fall in love with. No, this relationship, if they decide to do this, this is about lust, and about convenience, and that's more than Lestrade ever thought he would have while he's in this job.

Sherlock turns away and runs his hands through his hair, clutching at it with his fingers. Lestrade thinks for a moment that he's changed his mind; that he's going to leave. He takes a swig of the whisky to stop him humiliating himself by saying or doing something, anything, to get Sherlock to stay.

So he's surprised when Sherlock wheels around and strides back to stand in front of him, staring down at him fiercely. Lestrade wonders what he's thinking, but then he catches it; it's gone almost instantaneously -- a flicker of uncertainty. Sherlock doesn't know what to do next. It makes sense. He's not high on drugs this time. No doubt his giant brain is getting in the way.

Lestrade stands up. Sherlock doesn't retreat, to his relief, and they're breathing each other's breath. Sherlock's eyes have little flecks in them. He watches in fascination as Sherlock's brows draw together and his eyes narrow. He's thinking. He nods once, sharply, as though to himself, and takes that final step forward. Lestrade feels Sherlock's arm slide around his waist as Sherlock brings their bodies together.

"So we're doing this, then?" Lestrade remarks calmly, while all the blood in his body rushes to his groin and his hands reach to grab Sherlock's arse and pull him closer, tighter against him.

"Apparently so," Sherlock says against his mouth and then Sherlock's tongue is in his mouth and Sherlock's hands are under his shirt, stroking his skin, sliding towards his waistband. Apparently Sherlock doesn't believe in taking it slow. Maybe he doesn't know how. Lestrade will have to teach him. But not now, not when Sherlock's hand is sliding into his briefs and Lestrade's cock is swelling and his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. He has time to think that it's going to be really brilliant having a lover so single-minded, so focussed on attention to detail, then Sherlock's hand closes around his erection and Lestrade forgets what he was thinking and kisses him back.

**Author's Note:**

> Gilders' motivation was inspired by a real life serial killer that I am too paranoid to mention by name in case he googles himself. I read somewhere that once someone is targeted by a serial killer they have a 5% chance of survival.


End file.
